


It's Been Said

by jat_sapphire



Series: Out for the Holiday [2]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 02:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17112371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: Hutch goes back to Minnesota to try again with his parents, in 1987.  Starsky comes along.  Some edits since the version that was posted for the 2018 Advent Calendar at starskyhutcharchive.net.





	It's Been Said

Even Starsky was less than enthusiastic after driving from LA to Duluth in the depth of winter. Every kind of slippery road, every kind of screwed-up signage, every detour full of gravel, every spray of slush and salt they met was a new strain on their nerves, and given that every mile brought them nearer to Christmas with his parents, siblings, and Starsky, all in the same place, Hutch's nerves had been pretty strained before they even left California.

For the last couple of hours, Hutch had been staring out the window at the empty fields and rows of wind-break trees, gray-green under a sky the color of steel, fingering his mustache, sometimes even his eyebrows, and brooding.

Starsky tried again, putting one hand on Hutch's thigh and shaking it a little. “C'mon, Blintz. You look like it's an execution, not a family holiday.”

“They're only different because my mother's worried about stains on the rugs and the neighbors hearing the screams. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure that Thanksgiving would've ended in blood.”

Not getting into that, Starsky turned on the radio and sang along with the carols. “Chest-NUTS roasting on an open fire ...” Hutch winced and put a hand up to his ear.

At last, they were at the Econo-Lodge, chosen because it was near Miller Hill Mall, where they were meeting Hutch's older sister and her family: they'd shop with Irene and her son Richie (oops, Richard) for the afternoon; then they were dining with them and Dan. Then Christmas Day would be, well, hopefully it would be celebrated with the older Hutchinsons. Hutch's left shoulder twitched up, so he was probably worrying about that.

“Let's get in the room,” Starsky said, because surely if he just kept acting normal, the day would be normal, right? He grinned to himself, because, no, when had that ever worked?

They walked into the lobby and stood together at the desk, matched in their tans and the rings they wore, though after a moment looking for the front-desk clerk, Hutch stood back and put his hand in his pocket, while Starsky put both his up and tapped rhythms on the counter. They carried their own bags to the room, which was a King suite—Hutch liked a big bed, and not just because he was tall.

Starsky opened the suitcase on one of those unsteady shiny pipe luggage stands, while Hutch took his turn in the bathroom. By the time he came out, Starsky had put the Santa pillowcases on two of the pillows and taped the mistletoe at the middle of the headboard. Hutch laughed, came around the end of the bed and took Starsky in his arms. “Don't need mistletoe, do we?” he said, and they kissed, soft and wet and relaxed. Then Hutch put his forehead against Starsky's and sighed. Starsky held the back of Hutch's neck, gripping hard.

“Gimme a little,” he said, so they lay down and held each other. They kissed and nuzzled, hands in each other's hair and inside their collars, pulling shirts out of waistbands to get at skin, murmuring parts of words, making as much love as they could without getting naked or messing up their clothes too much.

But Starsky was keeping an eye on the little green numbers on the alarm clock, and they reluctantly sat up and untwisted their clothes in plenty of time to get to the mall. “Wait,” said Starsky, tenderly, as Hutch was about to stand, so he could finger-comb the long, silky strands to lie smooth, pat his jaw and say, “There ya go, handsome,” and get one more kiss before they tucked in shirts and put on their California jackets and Minnesota gloves.

There was no snow, but it was still a good idea to look out for patches of ice, and the wind-chill pinched their noses and ears. Starsky turned the car heater up high. “Finally gettin' some use outta this thing,” he said, and Hutch rolled his eyes. Put one hand over his mouth and squeezed a few times. Looked out the passenger window again, then at Starsky's profile and sighed.

Starsky could see the traces of guilt on Hutch's face and knew he was feeling bad about being so silent for so long. So it was no surprise when Hutch said, “It's … my father said some ugly things, last time, that Thanksgiving. I was glad you weren't there. My mother cried. Irene didn't want to touch me. If they, if you,” and there it was, Hutch's anxiety, not quite in words, but they didn't need words.

“Okay, what if they do?” After a moment, Starsky said more seriously, “Babe, you kept me alive, still do. If your family doesn't like that we're together, then they don't. I might be—surprised, but it's not like I'm leavin' you if they can't handle me. And this, meeting at the mall, seems like the safest possible thing. Irene's your mother's daughter, right? She's not gonna cry and yell in the middle of holiday shopping.”

“It does seem unlikely.”

“And then we come back to that great big hotel bed and celebrate for ourselves.” Starsky waggled his eyebrows, and Hutch laughed.

“I love you, crazy man,” he said.

“I know it.” Starsky pulled into the mall parking lot. “Now let's shop till we _drop_.”

***

Actually, they'd agreed to meet Irene and Richard at the main Customer Service desk, so Hutch and Starsky hooted and horsed around as they ran to the mall entrance, then nudged and ruffled each other's hair as they threaded through crowds, and then fidgeted and teased around the desk until Hutch said, his voice going sober and low despite himself, “There she is.”

His sister had turned into the image of his mother, as he remembered her from his childhood. Her hair was in a bob Hutch would have thought you couldn't even get any more at the hairdresser's. She walked toward them like an inevitable fate, through the milling crowd, under the remote skylight over three stories of mall, plastic crystal snowflakes the size of Volkswagen Beetles and spheres of green and red on long fishlines hanging almost to the top of Hutch's head. Richard trailed along just behind her, holding her hand, and yes, Hutch knew he was twelve or thirteen now, but his face was a new, man-like shape and his shoulders much broader than Hutch had guessed they'd be.

Starsky leaned in close and spoke quickly into Hutch's ear on a warm, tickling breath. “Now you remember she coulda just said no. But she came, and she brought little Hutch, and that's a lot already.” Then he straightened and moved forward with his hands out. “Irene, right? And mini-Hutch! Richard, right?”

It had been years since Hutch could be even a little objective about Starsky. The mass of curls, the tight jeans, the leather coat that was never zipped up, that lopsided grin (not to mention that fabulous ass), were the center of his personal solar system, and he couldn't imagine anyone being less than drawn into orbit and charmed.

Irene might be the exception. She stopped dead, and her clasp on Richard's hand stopped him too, when he had come as far as their two arms stretched. He looked like a dog on a leash for a moment, and then he let his mother catch up and stop beside him.

Hutch took a careful step forward and said, “Renie, hi! This is Starsky. Dave Starsky. I suppose if you're really nice he'll let you call him Dave.”

“Don't you?” she sounded almost shocked.

“Nah,” Starsky said easily. Hutch might have believed he was actually relaxed if he hadn't dried up, like Reagan waiting for a cue card. And Christ, he was still stuck.

Hutch jumped in: “Where do you want to start? Richard? Where's your favorite Christmas present?” He put one arm around the boy, squeezed a little. Renie jerked back. Hutch frowned at her. What kind of crazy thoughts did she have, anyway?

He looked down at the top of Richard's head. Not as far down as he'd expected. “You're getting tall. D'you play basketball?”

Richard looked up. “No, there's lots of taller guys.”

Starsky, who had stepped closer, nudged him with his knuckles. “Y'don't have to be tall,” he said. “I'll show you sometime. Just tricky.”

“You should know,” joked Hutch.

Then they all fell silent at once until Richard said, “Uh, books. The bookstore. It's—” with a little awkward gesture, so they all turned that way and began to dodge though last-minute shoppers tugging children and juggling tote-bags. Starsky had one hand on Richard's shoulder, talking half to the boy and half to Hutch, with little nervous glances at Irene.

“So you _are_ a mini-Hutch! Tall, or will be, and smart, a reader, and already so handsome! The girls must go ape over you.” Richard mumbled something in response.

“Renie, for God's sake,” Hutch said, looking at her anxious frown, trying not to sound as irritated as he was.

She started, and jumped again when he took her arm. “I know, I know!” she said. “I just need time to … get used to it. To him.”

Hutch was torn between two answers, maybe more. He tried to combine them. “You'll have a long time to try, but I don't think you can get used to Starsky, really. He doesn't fade into the woodwork. He's never background noise.”

Right now, Richard looked hypnotized. Starsky was almost dancing down the mall storefronts, gesturing and bouncing a little in the way that exaggerated his bowed legs and his ass.

“Richard really is getting big,” Hutch said. “I hope that means he won't have the on-the-rack-all-night kind of growth spurt like mine, when my clothes never fit and I kept knocking things over.”

“I hope not too.” But it wasn't the growth spurt she was worrying about.

“Renie!”

She actually stopped, turned toward Hutch, and twisted her hands together. “He's my son,” she said. “Of course I worry when … about ...”

“Starsky is not _chatting him up_. He's not _flirting_. Come on, Renie, do you think so little of me? Even if you don't trust him. When you know I do.”

“I don't know any hom-, any que-, any gay people.”

Hutch gestured between himself and his sister, between himself and Starsky. “And anyway, I'm sure you do, besides us. They just haven't told you, because of all this shit and nonsense, Jesus. Now for fucking Chrissakes, let's go buy a book.”

The bookstore was tarted up for the holiday, of course, tinsel and more glittery snowflakes—ignoring the actual snow that was dusting down outside the big windows, hardly fogging the air—Hutch took hold of his usual malaise. He'd known what it would be like, had consciously immersed himself in the commercial muck to meet his sister where neither was at home, where neither would find a stage to create drama on. Hutch was uneasily aware that he wasn't living up to his own expectations, and certainly not to Starsky's. He lengthened his stride and caught up to Starsky and Richard, leaving Renie to do whatever the hell she wanted.

“What do you like to read?” he asked.

“Get what you want,” Starsky said, then grinned. “Go nuts.”

Hutch looked around and up, the two stories of ordered shelves reminding him how the first big bookstore in town had made him feel that the life he wanted was in these pages, that all the freedom and capability he'd hungered for, the joy he'd just glimpsed, was here. “That's right,” he said, “go nuts. They got carts?” and grinned down at the kid.

Richard smiled back, a little shyly. “Baskets,” he answered.

“There,” said Starsky, pointing at a stack of them, so all three of them ended up with goofy plastic shopping baskets, and Starsky roamed the ground floor where the cookies and chocolates were while Richard and Hutch went up the escalator and talked books. Richard loved Stephen King, so Hutch dropped the three newest King books into his basket while they talked about horror (“I don't feel scared afterwards, Uncle Ken. I mean, isn't that the whole point, the book's over, so the good guys won? It's finished, anyway,” and Hutch was overtaken with tenderness for that serious young face and the bravery of his thoughts) and the Dirk Gently books, and a trilogy of Octavia Butler's because the boy should stretch his horizons, and then Richard stopped by another New Books display, looking at a young woman on a white horse on the covers. “Go ahead,” said Hutch.

“Well, maybe, but I really want the other ones. I got them from the library, but ...”

Hutch gestured him into the Science Fiction and Fantasy section, and scooped the two girl-on-horse books into his basket before following.

The books Richard picked had threatening, black and purple covers, and he put them into his own basket in a hurry. Hutch stopped him and pulled one out, but the blurb on the back was unremarkable: unappreciated young wizard turns out to be the greatest of all.

“He's gay,” Richard said, as softly as if Renie was behind him. “Vanyel.”

Hutch gazed. Then opened his mouth, shut it, then had a devilish impulse that should have been Starsky's and said, “Well, what _else_ do you think your mother wouldn't want you to buy?” which was how he ended up holding _Watchmen, Batman: Year One_ , and a debate about comic books versus graphic novels that took them back downstairs.

On the escalator, Hutch spotted Starsky and Renie laughing together in front of a display of romance novels, all pink and lavender and flowery, and was struck by one of those inconvenient but uncontrollable moments of desire that, ten years ago, he'd had no idea would still be ambushing him now. He stumbled off the escalator and needed Richard's hand on his elbow, on fire with the need to grab Starsky and kiss him _right now_ and to hell with his sister and the crowd, as he was nudged out of the way of the people behind them and toward the one person in the world.

Starsky saw the state he was in and laid one hand on his shoulder, then moved it to his neck. Hutch's free hand went to Starsky's back, pushed in hard, but didn't move him. He lifted his chin, gritted his teeth, and saw Renie rifling through the contents of his basket.

She didn't mention what the books were; she just said, “This isn't one Christmas. This is every Christmas since he was _born_.”

“Missed 'em all, didn't we?” asked Starsky and got them in line, where he prompted Hutch to talk about the movie theater in the mall; then the others described movies they'd seen there; Renie and Richard talked about new movies they were interested in, and Starsky and Richard talked about monster movies, a vehement conversation that involved several bystanders and threatened to go on all day, even after the bystanders and they had all paid for their books, games, fancy desk supplies, chocolate, and two gift cards Starsky had snuck into his basket while they were in line.

Renie was laughing again as they left the store, and Hutch realized she really was charmed into trusting Starsky, if not entirely reassured about gay men in general.

“There's a pool at the hotel,” Hutch found himself telling Renie. “Do you think Richard might want to come and swim?”

“He's a little old for a play-date,” she answered with only a little of the white of her eyes showing.

Hutch shrugged. He looked at fake garlands and wreaths and listened to piped-in elevator music. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. “Just a minute,” he said and dashed into a store with furry hats in the window, emerging a few minutes later with a puffy bag and shrugging at his sister. “Did we lose them altogether?”

“No, they're watching Santa. Ken, isn't … isn't your … isn't he Jewish?”

“Yes, Starsky's Jewish. And he loves Christmas. Don't ask me, I've never gotten it.” He shrugged. “Oh-oh.” And he strode ahead, leaving her behind, until he got to the toy store window display and wagged his finger at Starsky, who was watching the model train wind around the winter village like a racing greyhound watching the rabbit. “Your Christmas presents are at home. Being showered with pine needles dropping off that tree you made me set up. We are not going in here.”

“Richard,” Starsky said distractedly.

“Um, no,” Richard said, “though I wouldn't mind Spenser Gifts.”

Starsky looked pathetic. Hutch frowned, firm in the knowledge that the Lionel Christmas boxcar lay in its holly-covered giftwrapped glory two thousand miles away. “Come on, buddy.”

They went to Spencer Gifts, where Renie stood guard over the sex-toy section while Starsky set off all the motion-activated Christmas carol toys (as well as Farting Santa) and made jokes about almost every other object in the store. Richard browsed the t-shirts and bought a blacklight poster.

“Think what fun the next five or six years are going to be,” murmured Hutch, and surprised a laugh out of his sister.

“I'm still designing that kid trap,” she answered.

By the time they got out of the teenager-trap that was Spenser Gifts, it was time to ditch the shopping bags in their separate cars and meet Dan.

Having just left his law-firm job, Dan wore a beige tweed suit and dark brown tie and pocket square. Hutch realized belatedly that Irene had dressed to meet him, and felt weirdly under-dressed in his sports jacket and polo shirt, even though the family restaurant they went to was full of t-shirts and jeans. They got a booth where all five of them could crowd in, and the young woman in the lampshade skirt (and a little apple-spotted bib-apron like June Cleaver acting a French maid fantasy) gave them tall, thin menus that made such a picket-fence of the table that it was inevitable that Starsky would start fencing with Richard before the others had even ordered drinks.

Dan talked law, Irene talked shopping, and Richard and Starsky went back to monster movies, Hutch chipping in whenever he thought of something to say, which was harder work than he was used to, but was worth it for Starsky's happy grins.

Dan shook their hands when they said good night, and Starsky shook Richard by the shoulder and said, “See ya tomorrow, kid.” Hutch ruffled his hair. Richard looked okay, Renie looked okay, and Dan shot her a glance but seemed okay too.

Back in the Torino, Hutch let his head fall back and his knees flop apart. Starsky grabbed the left leg and said, “That's right, Blondie, relax.”

“I think we might live through this after all,” Hutch said, watching Starsky's profile.

“Live through it! 'Course we will! Katie tomorrow!” Hutch's younger sister had visited them in California and was well-known to Starsky.

“And my parents.”

“Babe, we can do anything together.”

“Such a sweet talker.”

Starsky grinned and drove.

“Too bad about the snow stopping,” he said when they were nearly back to the hotel. “I was hoping for a white Christmas.”

“No, you don't want to drive in it,” Hutch answered without opening his eyes. “Plus, the road salt plays hell with your car finish.”

“You're right then. Don't wanna mess up the Torino.”

Hutch snorted but said nothing.

“We're here, sleepyhead.” And they were.

***

Starsky looked over at Hutch pretending to nap as he set the parking break. He knew that look, when Hutch wanted to brood, not talk, but Starsky didn't want to talk or watch his lover brood, not tonight. He leaned over as far as he could to kiss the corner of Hutch's mouth, and Hutch started so hard that even expecting it, Starsky got a crack in the mouth from Hutch's head. “Oh great,” he said, feeling it. “Your mother's gonna think you beat me up if this bruises.”

Hutch glared and touched his own face.

“Joking, joking! Jeez,” and Starsky climbed out of the car, walked around, and opened the passenger door to usher Hutch out. He didn't step back, so Hutch slid up Starsky's front and ended up looking down at him, and it was easy to pull down on that stubborn neck and kiss the hell out of him, the way they'd both been wanting all afternoon. Hutch caught Starsky to him and Starsky put his arms on Hutch's shoulders and they just necked a while.

“We're in the parking lot,” Hutch murmured.

“Brains of the outfit,” Starsky said, and laughed a little.

“Moron,” and Hutch pushed away, a quirk at the end of his wide, pink mouth.

In the lobby, Starsky asked, “Want a nightcap?” but Hutch shook his head.

“What's in the minibar is fine.”

Fine with Starsky too.

In the room, Hutch roamed aimlessly around the suite, picked up the ice bucket and went for ice, made Starsky's drink and then his own, roamed some more, finally sat in one of the armchairs. Starsky wrapped the presents they'd brought from California. A box of Cuban cigars for the older Richard and another one for Dan. “Where'd Huggy get these, I wonder?”

“I don't want to know,” Hutch said. “And what's in those jewelry boxes, anyway?” One was for Hutch's mother Helen and one for Irene.

“Couldn't be bothered to come shopping with me, so just you wait 'til they unwrap 'em,” said Starsky.

“My name's on the tag!”

“So's mine. Dontcha trust me?” Starsky put the gifts, and Katie's green envelope, neatly in the big shopping bag, finished his drink, put the glass in the kitchenette, and took Hutch's glass out of his hand. “You've been watching my ass,” he said.

“I always watch your ass.”

“I know it.” Starsky smiled at Hutch's shirt as he unbuttoned it. Hutch smiled up but did not move. “C'mon, help me out, here.”

Hutch undid the waistband of his khakis and unzipped them.

“Very funny. It'll do in my back if I suck you off this way, and what'll you tell your mother tomorrow?”

“What'll _I_ tell her?”

“Babe,” and regardless of his back, Starsky leaned in and breathed over Hutch's mouth, “Here's what _I'd_ tell her: Mrs. Hutchinson— _Helen_ —your son has such a gorgeous, delicious _cock_ that I just hadda slurp it up and blow him for hours, last night, just _hours_ , and my back is killing me. You know how that is, right? 'Cause you suck old Richard, right?”

Hutch groaned, and shuddered, and said, “ _God_ , Starsk,” and grabbed him, pushing up to his feet with such force that he almost picked Starsky clear off the floor.

“Now _that'll_ kill your back, Blintz,” Starsky laughed as they moved, but it was only two steps to the bed, and Hutch got them both onto it.

Then they wriggled and pulled at their clothes until shirts and pants, underwear and socks, were on the floor and Hutch's hair was every which way, his fair skin flushing pink in patches, and his eyes hot. Starsky rolled on top of him, feeling those big hands on his sides, his back, his ass, “so good, Babe,” and then working down the sparsely-furred chest, nibbling the floating ribs while Hutch's stomach fluttered, then diving into the pubic hair that smelled so amazing and the salty, musky Hutch taste on his cock. It really was delicious, “'n really gorgeous,” looking up that long, pale, solid body, and Hutch looking back, pillow under his shoulders, while Starsky blew him. He rubbed the fine hair on Hutch's thighs, rolled his balls and stroked them, reading the skin with his fingertips as if it were Braille while his eyes never left Hutch's, worked his tongue everywhere, let Hutch stretch his mouth while Starsky kept it tight, tongue and hands never still. As he came, Hutch made an indistinct vowel sound that seemed ripped from his throat and pointed his chin at the ceiling. When he lowered it again, he was smiling ear to ear, eyes closed and fingers plucking at Starsky to bring his head, shoulders, arms, ribcage up Hutch's body again, until Starsky's knees were in Hutch's armpits and Starsky's hands on the headboard.

Hutch opened his eyes, and they were like beacons, shining so bright and fixed on Starsky as if he were the sun and the moon, every Christmas rolled into one. “Fuck my mouth, Babe, fuck it, fuck it,” and if anyone could say no to that, it wasn't Starsky, that was for damn sure. He pushed in just as Hutch was saying “fff” again, and Hutch got his teeth out of the way and took Starsky in, smooth as silk.

“So fine,” as Starsky rocked back and forth, as Hutch held his legs and guided him, as Hutch worked his mouth and made Starsky fly. Those long fingers, clever fingers, felt into the cleft of Starsky's ass and stroked and circled and tucked themselves in until bolts of energy cut through him, and he knelt up. His cock flipped out of Hutch's mouth as Starsky came, semen jetting onto Hutch's face, on his mustache, into his hair, onto the pillow and the headboard. He shook his head and growled, then collapsed onto Hutch as if dropping from the ceiling. All the air whooshed out of both of them, and they lay trying to breathe, which was much easier for Starsky than for Hutch. He rolled off then snuggled back to Hutch's side while the big galoot gasped and Starsky used fingers and lips and tongue to get his spatters off Hutch. The pillows and the headboard could wait for the cleaning staff.

They kissed, lazily, for what seemed like an hour. “God, you're good,”Starsky muttered into Hutch's neck. He smelled almost as fine there as right beside his cock.

“Merry Christmas,” Hutch said, and they started laughing for no reason either of them could have explained, harder and harder until they were snorting and gasping and clutching each other. “Crazy man,” Hutch murmured, and that was the last Starsky remembered.

***

The next day, Hutch sat in an armchair across the room from Starsky, who was perched on a dining chair. The spot between his shoulders that always ached when he'd been tense too long was stinging and occasionally stabbing him. His father and Dan were on the antique couch, Irene was in another dining chair, and his mother was in the second armchair. Katie was on the floor, legs crossed, near the coffee table. Richard, certainly the youngest person there, was taking presents from under the tree and distributing them, as the youngest always did.

“This one's just an envelope!”

“That's Katie's,” Hutch and Starsky said together. Starsky got up to get a couple of nuts out of the bowl at one end of the couch, then went back to his chair to crack them in his fingers. Hutch watched his hands, wondering at how the memory of those hands on him last night made that spot on his back feel better. Starsky popped a nutmeat in his mouth and winked at Hutch. Richard handed him a small package wrapped in blue, and then a roundish one rolled in red tissue paper.

When they'd first arrived at the Hutchinsons' house, Hutch had brought his puffy bag from the mall in the front way at a run, while Starsky called up the stairs after him, “Hey, slacker! We got stuff to unload here!”

Catching Katie in the hallway, Hutch said in a rush, “Do me a favor? Wrap this for Starsk?”

“You're exchanging your own gifts here?” Smiling widely, she took the bag. “Today?”

“Well, this one. I want him to have something to unwrap. From someone … friendly.”

Katie ducked her head. “I have a present for both of you,” she said softly.

Hutch hated that tucked down chin, the way she clearly felt her gift wouldn't be enough. “Oh, Katie, thank you! I can't wait.” He kissed her forehead as she took the bag from his hands. “I've gotta go back out or he'll yell the house down.”

“Sure,” she answered.

And now, here it was, and Starsky was squeezing the package and looking at Hutch, raising his eyebrows. “You devil,” he said, and then turned to Richard. “See another envelope?”

The kid looked, frowning a little, then pulled a red envelope out of the lower branches of the tree. “Here. Oh, and here,” and handed Hutch a little cylinder, then gave Starsky an identical one.

“For me?” Starsky was getting overwhelmed, Hutch could tell, and he began to feel hotly protective. Katie got up and pulled a package the size of two Euro-pillows, wrapped in the same red tissue paper as the hat, out from the back of the tree and handed it to Starsky, bending close and murmuring. Then she kissed the top of his head, and he looked up with that wet-eyed grin that always made Hutch's heart turn over. They were too far away from each other, too far! And of course, that wasn't an accident. Starsky shook his head and gestured, a patting motion that told Hutch to stay in his chair. Then he unwrapped the hat and put it on his head, the ear flaps hanging down. Richard shook his head and laughed.

Anyway the gifts were all distributed, and the opening began. Irene had given both Starsky and Hutch tins with home-made cookies in them; the two cylinders were ties, red for Starsky and blue for Hutch, from Richard. Hutch's tag said “To Uncle Ken,” and he couldn't wait to see the one Starsky was smoothing with his fingers, so he did a trash collection all around the room to get to Starsky and see “To Uncle Dave” and brush their cheeks together, his lips on the curve of Starsky's ear for just a moment, and his hand ruffling Starsky's hair.

Dan and his father made gratified noises about the cigars, and Irene opened the jewelry box and took out a silver necklace with an amethyst drop, while Hutch's mother had a gold necklace with moonstone, sardonyx, and opal drops. She looked confused.

Starsky explained, “I don't know the technical term, but I always call these Mom necklaces. They're the birthstones, you know, Irene's and Hutch's and Katie's. I got my ma one, so that's how I thought of it. Katie told me the months.”

Starsky was almost equally baffled with his gift from the Hutchinsons: a silver cigarette case. Hutch rolled his eyes. It was inscribed “David Starsky, Christmas 1987.”

“Oh, Hutch, do the envelope,” said Starsky. It was a gift certificate for engraving his commitment ring. “I did mine too, inside the band,” Starsky said, voice normal, as if he might have told this room-full of people any time. “Mine says 'Me and Thee,' just so you know.”

“You come here,” Hutch said and went out of the room, right up the stairs and into his old bedroom where the sunlight came dimly through the shades, and the door _shut_. He pulled the fur hat off, put his arms around Starsky, and tucked his face into the warm dark of Starsky's neck. “You're my family,” he said. “You're my life. Yeah, me and thee. I don't need anyone else.”

“You said that before, when we proposed,” Starsky said, kissing Hutch's eyebrow, which was nearest. “But, Babe, those people down there are your family too. You do need them, and they need you, too. Why do you think I came? Huh? And it's been good, hasn't it?”

Hutch kissed him, and again, until he stopped arguing a point Hutch had conceded days ago, until they traded “me and thee” back and forth on their tongues, until Katie knocked on the door and told them that her gift to them was the only one not unwrapped.

Hutch took a deep breath, smoothed back his hair and opened the door. Katie hugged him. “And thank you for my plane ticket!”

“If you can come those dates, we can go to the quilt exhibition,” Starsky said, hugging her in his turn, “but if you can't, we'll exchange it.”

“Oh, Dave, you're the _best_ brother-in-law,” she said.

Downstairs, Starsky opened the last gift and found a quilt in colors like the inside of a conch shell, pale dawn pink and rose and coral, opal blues and golden browns and sea-foam gray. It was king-size, appliqued with lace and beads, and Hutch caught his breath at the beauty of it and the months of work it represented.

“Katie,” he said, awed. He and Starsky held the quilt up between them, Richard standing too in order to see it better, and Katie blushed so hard that she covered her face with her hands.

“You're an artist,” Starsky said, and she didn't say she was a bank teller. Maybe she wasn't, any more.

In the end, when they'd packed up the Torino and said their goodbyes, Hutch and his father clasped forearms and his father leaned in. “He's a good man, your … ”

“He is. And try 'partner.'”

“Your partner. Merry Christmas, Kenny.”

It was more than Hutch had thought he'd ever have, the last time he'd set foot here. He grasped his father's shoulder and said, “I love you, Dad.”

His father shook his arm and said, “Go tell your mother,” so Hutch turned to hug her.

“Oh Kenny,” she said. “I do love you.”

“I love you, too. Merry Christmas, Mom. You and Dad should come see us, sometime.” It was an offer he hadn't believed he'd ever make, but now it just tumbled out of his mouth. She pulled back and started to make an excuse, so he laid his fingers on her mouth and said, “You're welcome to come, that's what I'm saying.”

“All right,” she said, and smiled. She was wearing the necklace, and she smiled at Starsky, too.

“Although it's been said many times, many ways—Merry Christmas to you,” sang his crazy-man partner. “Goodbye,” and he waved his hand out the window before starting the car.

They backed down the driveway, set off for the hotel, and Hutch sat back and smiled until his face hurt.

“And we've got another night on that King bed,” said Starsky, and winked.


End file.
